Attachments (15 page)

CHAPTER 44

From: Beth Fremont
To: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder
Sent: Mon, 11/29/1999 1:44 PM

Subject: The next time my sister gets married …

Remind me that I hate weddings. And my sister.

<>
I happen to know that you love weddings—that you give movies a one-star upgrade for even having a wedding scene. Wasn’t that the rule that forced you to give
Four Weddings and a Funeral
four stars even though you thought Andie MacDowell was a disaster?

<>
You’re right. I love weddings. I hate my sister.

<>
Why?

<>
Basically …because she’s getting married before me. I’m like the petty older sister in a period drama. “But Papa, she can’t get married before me.
I’m
the eldest.”

<>
Oh, I love period dramas, especially period dramas starring Colin Firth. I’m like Bridget Jones if she were actually fat.

<>
Oh …Colin Firth. He should
only
do period dramas. And period dramas should
only
star Colin Firth. (One-star upgrade for Colin Firth. Two stars for Colin Firth in a waistcoat.)

<>
Keep typing his name, even his name is handsome.

<>
I think we’ve discovered the only guy we’d ever fight over at an airport bar.

<>
You’re forgetting about Ben Affleck.

You’re also forgetting to complain to me about your sister’s wedding.

<>
Ben Affleck! Are you sure I can’t talk you into Matt Damon? We could double-date …

I didn’t forget. I just figured you were trying to change the subject because I was being ridiculous. I don’t have anything real to complain about. My complaint is: I always thought I’d be married by now.

<>
That’s not so ridiculous.

<>
No, it is. I had this whole plan when I graduated from high school:

I was going to go to college, date a few guys, and then meet
the
guy at the end of my freshman year, maybe at the beginning of my sophomore year. We’d be engaged by graduation and married the next year. And then, after some traveling, we’d start our family. Four kids, three years apart. I wanted to be done by the time I was 35.

<>
Four kids? Isn’t that a little extreme?

<>
It doesn’t matter. It’s no longer mathematically possible.

I’m not married. I’m not even close. Even if I were to break up with Chris tomorrow and meet someone new the very next day, my plan still wouldn’t be salvageable. It would take a year or two to figure out whether we were right for each other, at least six months to be engaged …That puts me at 31, 32 before I can get pregnant.

And that’s being overly optimistic. If I broke up with Chris tomorrow, I’d be a mess for a year (30). Then it might take another year to meet somebody else (31). It might take six years to meet somebody else (36). How can I plan around those variables?

<>
I’m confused. I thought you were 28.

<>
Maybe my plan was never possible. Maybe I would have figured all this out sooner if I hadn’t spent trigonometry passing notes to my 10th-grade boyfriend.

That’s the thing of it—the really petty thing of it—I can’t help but feel like this wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I’ve never worried about finding a guy.

In sixth grade, I dated the nicest cute boy in class. We talked on the phone twice over six months and held hands at an afternoon showing of
Superman III
. I always had a date, the right date, for every dance. I fell in love for the first time in the 10th grade with the guy I was supposed to fall in love with. I broke up with him after a year, and that was supposed to happen, too.

I was pretty sure I would never have to worry about finding
the
right guy. I thought it would happen for me the way it happened for my parents and for my grandparents. They got to the right age, they found the right person, they got married, they had kids.

<>
You’re kind of making me hate you.

<>
For being the kind of girl who always had a boyfriend?

<>
Kind of …I never had a date to any dance. I never took it for granted that any guy would ever fall in love with me. Let alone, the right guy.

<>
I don’t blame you for kind of hating me. But I kind of hate you, too. You
did
meet exactly the right person at exactly the right time. You
married
the nicest cute boy in class. And now you’re pregnant.

<>
But you met the right person, too, didn’t you?

<>
I don’t know if I even believe in that anymore. The right guy. The perfect guy. The one. I’ve lost faith in “the.”

<>
How do you feel about “a” and “an”?

<>
Indifferent.

<>
So you’re considering a life without articles?

<>
And true love.

CHAPTER 45

LINCOLN ATE DINNER
in the break room at the same time every night now, thinking that might increase his chances of seeing Beth. Doris appreciated the company. She liked to take her break at nine sharp. She always brought a turkey sandwich on white bread and bought herself a Diet Slice from the machine.

“Does your girlfriend make you those huge dinners?” she asked one night as he was heating up a plate of spinach-and-potato pizza.

“My mom does,” he said. Sheepishly.

“No wonder you’re so big,” Doris said.

He took his plate out of the microwave and looked at it. It really was an awful lot of pizza. He’d heard people say their appetite decreased when they exercised a lot, but he was hungrier than ever. He’d started taking bananas with him to the gym so that he’d have something to eat in the car as soon as he left.

“She must be a good cook, your mother. It always smells like a fancy restaurant when you’re in here.”

“Definitely. She’s a great cook.”

“I’ve never been much in the kitchen. I can make meat loaf and pork chops and green-bean casserole, but Paul had to cook for himself if he wanted something fancy. What is that? It looks like a giant sandwich.”

“It’s pizza,” Lincoln said. “Double-crust, spinach and potato. I think it’s an Italian thing. Would you like to try some?”

“If you’re offering,” Doris said eagerly. He pulled off a slice of his pizza for her. There was still plenty left on his plate.

“Oh, that’s good,” Doris said after a bite, “and I don’t even like spinach. Are you Italian?”

“No,” he said, “German mostly, a little Irish. My mom just likes to cook.”

“Lucky you,” she said, taking another big bite.

“Do you have children?” Lincoln asked.

“Nyah. Paul and I never had kids. I guess we did the same thing as everybody else does, but nothing ever happened. In those days, if you didn’t have kids, you didn’t have kids. You didn’t go to a doctor to see who was responsible. My sister was married for fifteen years before she got pregnant. I thought that might happen to us, too, but it never did …Just as well, I guess.”

They both chewed in silence. Lincoln didn’t trust himself to make more small talk. He hadn’t meant to ask such a personal question.

“My mom made carrot cake this morning,” he said, “and she gave me way too much. Do you want to split it?”

“Sure, if you’re offering.”

They were just finishing their cake when a young woman walked into the break room. Lincoln sat up extra straight until he recognized her as one of the copy editors, the small girl who’d offered him banana bread. She smiled nervously at him.

“You’re the IT guy, right?” she asked.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner. We tried calling your office, but you weren’t there. A couple of us can’t get on the server. We’re sort of on deadline. I’m sorry”—the girl looked at Doris—“I know you’re on break.”

“Don’t apologize to me, honey,” Doris said. “It won’t be the first time a man has left me for a younger woman.”

Lincoln was already standing. “That’s okay, let me see if I can help.”

“I really am sorry,” the girl said as they walked to the newsroom.

“It’s okay,” he said, “really. It’s my job.”

“I’m sorry I called you the IT guy. I didn’t—nobody on the desk knows your name.”

“I answer to IT guy, don’t worry about it.”

She nodded, uncomfortably.

“But my name is Lincoln,” he said, holding his hand out to her.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, relieved, taking his hand. “I’m Emilie.”

They were at her computer now. “Can you show me what it’s doing?” he asked. She sat down and tried to log on to the server. An error message popped up.

“That happens every time,” she said.

“That’s an easy fix,” he said, leaning over to take her mouse. Her hand was still there. Both of their hands jumped, and he felt himself blushing. If this was how he acted around a girl he wasn’t at all attracted to, how would he act if he ever had to fix Beth’s computer? He might throw up on her.

“Maybe I should sit down,” he said.

Emilie stood up, and he sat in her chair. It was set so high, her feet must not touch the ground. She was standing behind him now, and they were practically the same height. Against his will, Lincoln thought of Sam. Sam, so small he could pick her up with one arm. Sam, curled up next to him at the drive-in. Sam, slow dancing with her cheek on the third button of his shirt.

“There,” he said to Emilie, “you’re in. That shouldn’t happen again. But give me a call if it does. Or …I guess you know where to find me. Did you say someone else was having problems?”

Lincoln helped two more copy editors get on the network. When he walked away, Emilie was standing by a printer. She was pretty, in a pale, unassuming way.

“Hey,” she said, “Lincoln.”

He stopped.

“We usually eat around now,” she said, “at our desks. On Fridays, we order pizza. You should come up and hang out. I mean, not that you wouldn’t want to eat with Doris. She’s really nice.”

“Sure,” Lincoln said, imagining himself hanging out upstairs, then glancing nervously at the back of the newsroom. “Thanks.”

CHAPTER 46

From: Beth Fremont
To: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder
Sent: Fri, 12/03/1999 1:35 PM
Subject: Short people got no reason to live.

Why are tall guys always attracted to short women? Not just moderately short women, either …Tiny women. Polly Pockets. The tallest guys always-always-always go for the shortest girls. Always.

It’s like they’re so infatuated with their own height that they want to be with someone who makes them feel even taller. Someone they can tower over. A little doll that will make them feel even bigger and stronger.

Whenever I see a really tall guy with a really short girl, I always want to take him aside and say, “You realize your sons will never play basketball, right?”

It wouldn’t be so bad if short guys were incredibly attracted to tall women. But they’re not. They don’t want anything to do with us.

<>
Is this about Chris? Is he two-timing you with Holly Hunter?

<>
Holly Hunter?

<>
That’s the only short woman I could think of. How about Rhea Perlman?

<>
“Two-timing”? Who says “two-timing”?

<>
Don’t turn on me. I’m not the one who’s seeing Crystal Gayle on the side.

<>
Crystal Gayle isn’t short.

<>
Isn’t that why her hair looks so long?

<>
I’m not talking about Chris. Chris isn’t interested in anyone, including me. I’m talking about My Cute Guy.

<>
The Brawny Man? He’s cheating on you with Mary Lou Retton?

<>
Worse. I saw him talking to that Emilie on the nightside desk.

<>
The little blond one?

<>
That’s her, all right.

<>
She’s not just short. She’s like a normal-size person who’s been miniaturized so that everything about her is still in perfect proportion. She’s like something you’d find in an elaborate dollhouse, so tiny and yet so lifelike.

Have you ever noticed her waist? It’s infinitesimal.

<>
I could put my hands around her waist. If standing next to her makes
me
feel strong and masculine, she must make My Cute Guy feel like a god.

<>
She’s Lilliputian.

<>
They wouldn’t let her ride Splash Mountain.

<>
You know what I don’t like about her? The way she spells her name with an “ie.” Everyone knows that Emily is spelled “Emily.” It’s not cute to spell it with an “ie.” It doesn’t make you unique. It doesn’t set you apart from all the other Emilys in the world. It’s pointlessly confusing.

<>
Her parents probably thought it was cute. That’s not really her fault.

<>
Oh, right, not like her tiny, little, perfect body.

When did you see them together?

<>
Last night. I finished up a review, and I went over to the copy desk to tell the editors to have at it. And there they were. Talking. In front of God and everyone.

<>
Maybe they were talking about work.

<>
What work? He’s not on the copy desk. What the hell
does
he do? I don’t think it’s advertising—he wears cargo pants. Who else has to work at night? Maybe he’s security. Or a janitor.

<>
Maybe he works on the presses. Those guys are here at night.

<>
He’s a not a pressman. They wear blue jumpsuits, and they all have mustaches. Besides, he wasn’t talking to Emilie about work. She was laughing. And twirling that yellow ponytail of hers like a schoolgirl.

<>
Was he laughing?

<>
Not exactly. He was mostly just towering. And smiling.

Oh, curse you, Miniature Emilie, you petite seductress.

<>
Does this mean we have to start calling him Emilie’s Cute Guy?

<>
Never!

<>
Lucky for you, you already have an extremely tall man in your life who doesn’t have Thumbelina syndrome.

<>
Are you trying to make me feel guilty? You don’t even like Chris.

<>
Sorry. I get that from my mom. I just can’t resist an opportunity to make someone feel guilty. On the other hand, Chris
is
your boyfriend.

<>
Come on. It’s not like I’m two-timing him.

<>
I think it would hurt my feelings if I found out that Mitch thought of someone at work as “My Cute Girl.”

<>
That’s different. Mitch works at a high school. With actual girls.

<>
You know what I mean.